


Refuge

by methylviolet10b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Pre-Canon, Prompt Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 15:10:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/868948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has his own understanding of religion.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refuge

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP #3. Yes, another one for the same prompt: Sacred Spaces. Incorporate the religion or philosophy of your choice into today's story, in whatever manner you choose.
> 
> Warnings: This is totally odd. I really don't know where it came from, but it demanded to be written in response to today's prompt, so. **And absolutely no beta.** This was written in a complete rush. You have been warned.

 

Religion is the opiate of the masses.

Sherlock remembered reading that once, a long time ago. He hadn't bothered recording the work or the author – not relevant – but the idea itself was worth keeping in his mind-palace. He largely agreed with it, both in terms of the common understanding of the statement (dismissive; scorn for the superstition of the general population; a method of numbing the mind and senses), and as he understood it himself: as a powerful, at-times-overwhelming craving for solace, one that defied logic with the irresistible power of its underlying needs.

He understood the need for relief, for shelter, for comfort; the profound desire to believe that things would be better, someday, somehow. Had needed it, desperately, when his faith in his personal gods (Mummy, Father, _Mycroft_ ) proved as false as any other religion. Had needed it, and largely failed to find it, but not entirely. His violin had always been a comfort, even when everything else went to hell; the one constant he could believe in. He'd found sanctuary in the literal opiates of the world; drugs were marvelous, powerful, but ultimately treacherous. He'd found relief in logic, and in putting his abilities to precise use in the science of deduction; but even that could not always answer.

And before science, before the drugs, in the worst, earliest days after being sent off to school, he'd found the most unlikely refuge of all: mandatory daily attendance at chapel. An ancient, outdated tradition, but one the school took seriously. The chaplain was also a dean, a teacher in history, one well-versed in philosophy, and a man entirely unwilling to tolerate any misbehavior in his demesne, not even towards the obnoxious, prickly, too-smart-for-their-own-good boys. He also had a keen ear for music, and knew how to spot a boy who could sight-read.

No one had ever asked Sherlock if he could sing.

As it turned out, he could, at least in that first year. While he found the music itself often predictable, there was still something soothing about it that kept it from being dull. Moreover, being part of the select group of choristers, under the watchful eye of the chaplain, gave Sherlock a refuge. The boys in the choir didn't actively dislike him, at least not to the degree his other classmates did. More importantly, neither the chaplain nor the head chorister would tolerate anything that interfered with the smooth operation of the choir – including hazing of the members of the choir. Since the head chorister that year, Kingsley, was also an extremely popular fellow, not to mention the best goalie the school had seen in years, his word carried a great deal of weight. Sherlock was largely left alone after Kingsley made it clear that failing to do so would have profound consequences.

Sherlock's voice broke early in his second year, ending his chorister career. But by that time the habit of leaving him be had taken hold. He'd learned how to survive at the school, was on the fencing team, had won a prize for chemistry. He no longer needed the choir or the sanctuary of the chapel.

But he _missed_ it all the same.

Sherlock has told a very few, very select number of people about his mind-palace, John most notably.

He's never told anyone that there is a chapel in his palace.

It's a small space, with ancient wooden paneling and chorister stalls nearly identical to those he sat in, except that the candle-holders hold actual candles that smell of beeswax, not cheap paraffin, and the flames never gutter in cold drafts. The altar is plain, draped by a white cloth. There is a book there, one that contains the written music for every song he ever sang in those daily chapel services.

If you know where to look, you can see pictures and other objects in the small carved niches along the walls. The objects in them would have no place in a real-world chapel, but indisputably belong here. There is an old-fashioned portrait of the dean in one nook, a faded snapshot of what might be the Holmes family in another. A modern electronic photo-frame scrolls through countless images of John, while Mrs. Hudson beams out from a rose-embellished silver frame in the niche next to it. Yet another nook holds the photo ID of a particular Detective Inspector.

Sherlock does not visit his chapel often, but when he does, there is always music, and candlelight, and a sense of peace beyond all logic.

 

 

_Religious suffering is, at one and the same time, the expression of real suffering and a protest against real suffering. Religion is the sigh of the oppressed creature, the heart of a heartless world, and the soul of soulless conditions. It is the opium of the people._ – Karl Marx

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted July 3, 2013


End file.
